Songs in Spring
by horrendoushaddock
Summary: Ficlet. Snufkin had no idea Moomin could sing. But, then again, Moomin probably didn't know, either.


**A/N:** commission for mogadeer on tumblr!

**Songs in Spring **

It's just the two of them together on this warm spring night.

It had been Moomin's idea to camp out in the woods, away from Moominhouse and Snufkin's chosen campground for the year. Not that there was anything wrong with either of those places, but they could be so easily found. Maybe it was a little selfish, but he had really wanted some time alone with the drifter.

Of course, he was nothing short of ecstatic when Snufkin actually agreed to the idea.

Their campsite is more or less set up and comfortable, save for a fire. While Snufkin prepares their sleeping bags, he glances over his shoulder at Moomin.

"Moomin, do you mind getting us some firewood, and starting a fire?" he asks.

"Oh! Of course, Snufkin," Moomin says, and his excitement makes Snufkin smile. The mumrik pauses in his preparation, and watches the troll wander off into the treeline. He doesn't go too far, so Snufkin can watch him as he picks and chooses branches and pieces of wood.

The smile softens, just a little.

Moomin's grown. It's a strange sort of instance, recognizing all the time that's passed since he's come to know Moomin in the way the years have changed him. It's not that Snufkin hasn't noticed the subtle changes before, but in this moment, it seems as though they have all caught up to him at once.

Moomin is certainly taller. Not by a whole lot, but enough for Snufkin to notice. His stubborn baby fat seems to have finally given way to a more solid bit of a muscle. Not to say the troll still isn't stocky, but it's in a different way now. It suits him, Snufkin thinks. Though, perhaps the most telling sign of adulthood is Moomin's voice. He's lost the child-like tone and pitch, and something deeper has settled in its place. Still, he somehow manages to speak so softly, and Snufkin can appreciate that.

He realizes he's been staring, and shakes the hold away, going back to the sleeping bags. He unfolds one, shaking it out and then laying it on the ground. But before he can kneel down to properly adjust it, a soft and sudden sound catches his attention. His hearing is sharp, and though it takes him a moment to face the source, he does indeed find it.

His eyebrow raises when he realizes it's coming from Moomin.

It starts as a quiet hum, but turns into a quiet song soon enough.

..._should I try to hide the way I feel inside?_

The other eyebrow raises, and Snufkin finds himself staring again at the back of the troll. Moomin had always enjoyed music, but he couldn't quite carry a tune when he had been younger. His voice just hadn't really allowed it, but with age has come a new range, apparently.

..._would you say that you would try to love me, too?_

Snufkin's interest is piqued, and he turns himself around to be able to comfortably watch Moomin as he listens. The troll is oblivious to his gaze, still shuffling about in the brush and collecting firewood. The volume of his voice never raises, but he's singing considerably clearer.

Snufkin wonders where he learned this song, or if he, perhaps, made it up. It's a lovely tune, and he may try to mimic it later on his harmonica. Though, it's the words that really stand out to him, and he feels a heat prickling at the back of his neck as he watches and listens.

_If I feel that I could be certain, then I would say the things I want to say tonight._

And that's about the time Moomin turns around, arms full of bare, thick branches. He catches Snufkin's gaze, and a light pink colors the bridge of his pale snout. Were Snufkin's eyes not so well adjusted to the dark, he may not have been able to see the blush. But he does, and it makes the heat at the back of his neck spread to his ears and cheeks.

"Ah - I'm sorry, Snufkin. Was that bothering you?" Moomin asks, stepping into the clearing.

"No - no. Not at all," Snufkin replies, a little too quickly for his own liking. As he turns around, going back to the sleeping bags, he keeps the brim of his hat tipped down, conveniently covering his face.


End file.
